


Collision Course

by nvzumii



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hugging, Its Gonna Get Soft Soon, M/M, Mentions of Death, Monthly Klance Prompts April 2019, Other tags to be added, Rated Teen and Up for Violence/Language, Rivalsish at First, Slow Burn, Violence, Voltron au, hand holding, klance, monthly klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18308798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nvzumii/pseuds/nvzumii
Summary: Keith's been on his own since he was fourteen. It's taught him how to be tough, resilient, to stand up for himself and most importantly, to keep living. He depends on no one but himself. Lance is also on his own, only he's used to being in the company of his family. He recently found himself a place to call home in an abandoned farmhouse. Keith has a temporary home within a civilization, and now he's on a supply run for them. And when the two meet, they might just be on a collision course destined for death.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](https://monthlyklance.tumblr.com/post/183703655131/monthly-klance-april-prompts-2019-theme-firsts?is_highlighted_post=1) are the prompts I used! I know upon seeing them the first thing that comes to mind probably isn't going to be something revolving around the end of the world but here we are.

“Dad,” Keith whispers, dewy eyes glossed and on the verge of tears. “I’m scared.” His voice is a beacon in the dark. The only semblance of something human. The only connection to human life.

A loud rattle shakes the closet door, causing Keith to sink into his father’s side, now trembling in fear.

“It’s going to be alright, son.” His father’s thick Texan accent drawls on each vowel, time seeming to slow in the process. They’ve been hiding for what feels like hours, a heavy bookshelf being the only thing keeping unwanted guests out, and the two of them in.

The sounds of hissing creatures echoes throughout the entire house, loud enough to cause an eruption of the natural sound barrier, it seems. They drown out Keith’s words as well as his thoughts.

He sees his dad motioning to the small lighter in his hand. His small knuckles have paled a starking white against the polished metal. It doesn’t take long for his father to take the lighter from him, immediately telling him to keep quiet with a firm finger pressed to his lip.

“I—” Keith rubs at his eyes angrily. He knows he shouldn’t be crying because boys are tough, and boys don’t let it seem like they’ve broken. They have to protect the most important people to them in life, have to stay strong for them. Keith doesn’t even know where his mom is right now. She’d been out in the backyard getting ready to feed the chickens when a dozen or so walkers broke through the partially secured barrier, chunks of flesh getting caught in the barbed wire fencing. He can only hope she made it inside the small barn located next to the shack they call home.

“Keith,” His father starts “I have a plan, but I need you to help me. As soon as it's  followed through, you need to make a run for the barn to find your mother.” He says. At the time, Keith couldn’t recognize the sorrow in his own father’s voice, the way his upper lip quivered the more he spoke, the way his hands shakily pulled him into a tight embrace that seemed to last forever. He should have picked up on what was about to happen by the way his dad kissed his forehead, then his cheek then told him to take care of his mother.

But he was only a child. He couldn’t have tried to stop the events that followed even if he wanted to. There’s nothing that stands in the way of a man protecting his family, the people he loves more than himself, the people he wakes to every morning and says goodnight to whenever the sky finally reaches its deepest hue and the stars are all visible. Keith’s father’s purpose was to ensure that Keith had a future, that he could grow up protecting himself so that he could protect his mother so that when this was all over, they could live out the rest of their lives happily together.

Now Keith stands midst a crowded closet, coke can in one hand, knife in the other, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks as he is unable to hold them back any longer. And when his father opens the closet door, Keith throws the can as far as he can into the living room. All the undead limp over to the sound--what's left of their bodies brushing past one another--towards the coke can.

“I love you, dad,” He croaks out, lungs heaving for air.

“I love you too,” He says, and then he’s pushing Keith forward, beckoning him to fill out the rest of the plan.

And Keith does. He sprints out the front door and around the house as fast as his little legs will carry him. He knows he can go to his mother and save his dad if he just runs faster.

His mom greets him at the barn door, throwing herself at him, not caring if something were to come up behind her and sink its teeth into the base of her neck the same way they’d done to any chickens that got loose.

“Mom we have to get back to the house! We have to save dad! We—” His cries are cut off by a loud explosion. Keith watches in horror as their shack, their home, the only home Keith has ever known, lights up the nearest mile with bright yellow flames. Walkers attempt to leave through the back door but disintegrate into piles of ash before they step foot outside. The light covers everything in a white film, causing Keith to squeeze his eyes shut. He only opens them to stare at the back door, to wait for his father to come running out, eyes blazing with adrenaline.

Only he doesn’t come, and the fire keeps blazing.

Keith can’t move, he feels paralyzed. He doesn’t budge when his mother tugs at his arm, nor at the sight of the fire’s embers jumping out onto the nearby trees. He has to be carried over the shoulder by his mom, who is now running with all her legs can muster at this point. When he does appear from his trance, his eyes can’t help but burn with hot tears as he watches the rest of his house shrivel up under the flames of his dad’s metal lighter, growing smaller in the distance.

 

* * *

Driving. Keith’s entire body aches from maintaining the uncomfortable seating position while driving on the open road. There isn’t another working vehicle in sight, leaving the entirety of both lanes to himself, which he mildly appreciates. His skin burns under his dark clothing from the sun’s dangerous rays. It causes sweat to pearl at the top of his forehead, the occasional droplet trickling down his cheek like a salted tear. He’s dying to pull over and stretch his limbs but he told himself he’d wait until his tank was almost empty and then he could stretch when he was refilling his bike.

It doesn’t take long for his brain to take over and pull him off the highway to the nearest gas station so that he could not only stretch and refuel but empty his bladder as well. A few minutes on the property and Keith has it cleared of any walkers. One quick jab of his knife through each head and he’s alone again.

Keith absolutely hates siphoning gas. Mostly it's the taste that gets to him. He doesn’t swallow it, but the pungent odor of the gasoline fills his lungs and nostrils long before he gets the chance to get the last drops of gas out of the Blue Sedan parked half a block away from his motorcycle. He coughs, peeling his mouth from the siphoning tube, eyes squeezed shut during the process.

When his lungs fill with fresh oxygen, he peers up at the building in front of him. The sign that once stood with all its letters now reads “ F E M R T” but Keith makes out the faint shadow of the missing letters and comes to the conclusion that it's supposed to say “Fresh Mart”. As if on cue, his stomach erupts in a fit of anger, letting Keith know he really can’t go any more days without food.

“It’ll be just a minute, Red.” He assures his bike, though if anyone were here they’d probably look at him as a crazy man because he was just talking to his vehicle.

He unsheathes his knife once more and enters the small mom and pop grocery store with caution. The lights obviously don’t work but Keith manages to make out the different aisles thanks to the suns lighting and it looks like he’s hit the Elysium of canned goods, that is until the expiration dates read years long past. He thinks he should be good to eat a can or two of red beans and sweet corn but the smell wafting from them upon stabbing the cans open assures him that they are long gone. Keith isn’t planning on leaving this world because of a few cans of rank food, so he tosses the cans and continues searching.

Though he doesn’t find any luck in the food department, the medicine seems fully stocked and not expired. Keith thumbs a few labels that read “ibuprofen” and “acetaminophen” and he recognizes the generic brand for cold and flu tablets. He snags them all into his jacket pockets but nearly has a heart attack when a loud thud shakes the rack of digestives to his left.

“Shit,” he hears a voice curse and Keith holds out his blade instinctively. It's worse to have to deal with other humans, they aren’t as easy to get rid of as walkers, and somehow, they’re louder and more annoying than them too.

Keith thinks he should wait to see if the person leaves, but the more irrational part of him decides to turn the corner and rush the guy because he doesn’t have all day to sit around, daylight is literally burning up and waiting would waste the few hours of sunlight he has left to travel over seventy miles.

So he grabs a hold of the guy, spins him around, and hovers the flesh of his neck with his knife.

“H-hey, man, no need to bring the knives out.” The guy says. This only causes Keith to press the flat surface of his knife to the base of his neck because although he’s holding the man basically at gunpoint, he has no intentions of killing him, especially not someone who looks so defenseless with his tall stature and worried expression that projects from his entire body in shaking spasms.

“Where did you come from?” Keith raises his head to meet the guy's eyes. Staring back are bright orbs, the freshest ocean blue eyes that put all other blue eyes, and really any other eye color, to shame. He hasn’t seen eyes this inviting since before he was nine.

“Ask a guy out on a date first, sheesh,” Is all he says, and Keith immediately redacts any nice thoughts he had of this guy. He presses the knife with more force against his neck, able to feel him tremble when he swallows. “Okay! Okay! Can you stop it with the knife.”

Keith lowers his knife but keeps it in his hand in case he has to use it, instead opting to crumple the fabric of his shirt between his fingers.

“Answer my question.” He repeats, the deep scowl on his face letting the other guy know he isn’t here to play games.

“Down south. I’m alone I swear, I have been for months now.” He says and Keith takes notice in the black strap trailing down the guy's chest. This is the first time he realizes he’s carrying a rifle. A rifle that might be loaded and ready to use the moment Keith is caught off guard.

“You look clean. Where are you staying?” Keith asks, watching as the man’s hands fidget under the question.

“Where are you staying?” He repeats.

“So you do have a brain up there. For a minute I actually thought you were here to attempt to take me out and snag my things.” Keith tightens his grip on his knife handle.

The guy shifts between the balls and heels of his feet anxiously and Keith would have pegged him as a wasted case were it not for the devilish smirk and small glint in his eyes as he carefully calculates his next few words.

“I actually didn’t know you were in here until you came at me with a knife to the throat!” He retorts, crossing his arms childishly. If he weren’t so cocky, he probably wouldn’t be alone, Keith thinks.

“In that case carry on looting, I have business to attend.” Keith huffs. And with that, he lets go of his shirt and makes his way to the exit.

He’s halfway out the front door when he hears an “At least let me patch you up,” followed by a “Don’t think I didn’t notice the blood-soaked gauze you have sticking out near your collarbone!” Keith glances down at his shoulder, reliving the events that gave him the nasty wound.

“I’m good,” Keith says, but the guy is persistent. He follows him all the way to his motorbike going on about how he could die if an infection arises as a result of his poor self-hygiene.

“Just let me help! I don’t want to watch you throw your life away like that! I’ll take you back to my place I have the proper medicine to help you, there’s even an extra room you could sleep in for the night,” He’s practically shouting and Keith is about to hit him upside the head with the hilt of his knife if he doesn’t quiet down because his shrilling voice is going to call over any zombies in the area, and Keith doesn’t have the strength in him to worry about killing them and watching over this guy at the same time.  

“Okay,” Keith starts, reluctant to continue speaking. “Will you leave me alone if you patch me up and whatever else you were just going on about?” His scowl deepens when the man’s eyes light up.

He nods.

Keith agrees not because he cares about getting an infection, or because he doesn’t want to have blood on his hands from killing him, or even because he thinks he could get hooked up with a good supply of rations, but because agreeing is the only way to get the annoying son of a bitch to stay quiet.

“Half your rations,” Keith says, and he most certainly means it.

“What?” He replies, face struck with uncertainty.

“I want half the food you have.” Keith raises. “Otherwise I leave with an infection and you’ll have no ride back to wherever it is you’ve been living.”

Without hesitation, he agrees.

“Deal.” And he’s hopping onto the back of Keith’s bike like he was prepared for this, arms hovering over his waist as the engine roars to life. “Doctor Lance is going to nurse you back to health!”

Keith rolls his eyes and starts driving down the road in the guided direction.

“This is turning into one hell of a day, huh, Red,” Keith mutters, completely ignoring a dozen questions Lance asks, acting as if he can’t hear his voice over the thrum of his engine and the rock rolling under his bike’s wheels. “One hell of a day.”

 

***

 

When Lance said he was living in multitude, he wasn’t joking. It’s a two-story farmhouse, worn out from what seems like a few generations of consistent living. The cream-colored exterior has chips and scratches that have likely weathered with time. Nearby trees hold specks of red and orange. It’s a complete change from the desolate desert Keith is used to.

“This is all yours?” He asks as the two walk up the small rocky pathway to the front door. “Seems like you could live the rest of your life here.”

“That's the plan,” He hums and enters the house, proceeding to tell Keith about all the renovations he’s done to the place over the course of the last few months, including a small vegetable garden growing from the balcony connecting into the master bedroom.

He takes in the place, its wooden walls ornate with dozens of photographs, all different shapes and sizes from different decades. Keith’s house held a single photo that now sits in a pocket of his crew jacket. The cupboards are overflowing with cans of fruits and soups, the drawers stocked to the brim with medical supplies and kitchen utensils and Keith can’t help but wonder if Lance wasn’t always alone or if he was just an excellent raider.

Maybe he just happened to hit the jackpot with this house and everything in it. Maybe Keith just hit the jackpot in finding Lance.

“Come sit so I can have a look at your shoulder.” Lance pats down the empty seat on the couch next to him as he pulls out a small first aid box from under his feet. “Don’t worry, my mom was a nurse. She taught me all I know.” Somehow that doesn’t reassure Keith in the least.

Keith does as told, now occupying the seat adjacent to him. It dawns on him that Lance doesn’t know this is a result of getting an arrow shot through him—it would’ve gone through his head had Keith not reacted as quickly as he did--and not a bite. He guesses he’ll figure it out the minute the gauze comes off and doesn’t bother to say anything about the subject.

“Christ,” Keith mutters, eyes squeezing shut as Lance sprays disinfectant over the wound, causing it to heat up and sting like a thousand angry fire ants. It hurts almost as much as the flesh in the same area being ripped apart, edges of the arrowhead digging into his arm, possibly damaging tissue and nerves at the least.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to start digging out back,” Lance says, meeting Keith’s eyes.

“ _What!_ ” Keith has a momentary lapse of panic before he sees the smirk across Lance’s mouth widen. His annoyance only deepens as Lance’s laughter grows increasingly.

“Asshole.” He spits. “And you wonder why you’re on your own out here.”

Lance stands up and moves to the kitchen, returning with a roll of gauze and what looks like stitching material.

“Who’s the asshole now with that rude comment,” He replies, eyes too concentrated on the wound to look at Keith. “You need stitches if you want that to heal properly,” He assures him.

Keith’s only had stitches a few times in his life. Once when he was three for smacking the back of his head into the corner of their dining table, though he doesn’t remember that. Twice when he fell and split his knee open trying to ride his dad’s tractor but failing to even reach the gas pedal. The third time is going to be right now. In a strangers living room. Because he’s afraid if he doesn’t listen to the only person in sight with some extent of knowledge about the medical field and dies, his dad will sling him all the way back here from the afterlife to give him another chance to re-decide the decision to pass on healing a wound that could possibly give him a revolting disease or infection and Keith really doesn’t want to go through with seeing Lance for a second time.

“How did this happen?” Lance asks in an attempt to distract Keith from feeling the first bit of thread dig into his upper layer of skin.

“Arrow,” Keith grits through his teeth, fingernails digging into his palms with so much strength he swears he feels blood.

If Lance was shocked, he didn’t show any sign of it, he just continues to weave the stitching through the broken skin as delicately as possible.

Keith would’ve assumed with Lance’s large hands and slender fingers, he’d have a hard time keeping a steady job, but surprisingly, he manages to stitch Keith up relatively easily. For Keith, it's a different story. It hurts like hell because Lance doesn’t own any numbing cream or shots, but he isn’t about to let him know that. He takes it like a man, holding his breath, biting down on the inside of his cheek, eyes squeezed shut to hold back tears that well in his eyes every time he feels thread weave through layers of already tender skin. Lance tells him he’s going to need to take a lot of painkillers the next couple days so there’s no way he can leave until then because he doesn’t want to fall over mid-bike ride to only get eaten alive after all the pain he just endured.

Keith understands his concern, the gash was pretty large and did cut through almost all the way through his shoulder blade. It sure as hell bled a lot too.

“Fine but if you’re making me stay, I’ll pitch in around here, help you build a sturdier barricade, water the plants, all of it,” Keith says because even though he just met Lance, he believes in fair payment. He can also tell he’s the type of person to insist he stay bedridden the entire day and let him do all the work and on top of it wait on him hand and foot. And Keith cannot sit around waiting to heal, he has to keep busy.  

“If you do all that then you have to let me take your bike into town to find more supplies to build a barrier.” He responds, crossing his path to block the front door as if he predicted Keith’s next move.

Keith is reluctant but he agrees to let Lance borrow Red, assuring him that if she comes back with even an inch of walker blood on her finish, he will not hesitate to wring his neck by the very gauze he has in his hand. He figures if he’s taking Red to get wood to build a barricade, he shouldn’t have to worry about Lance running off into the sunset with his motorbike, especially not with all the food he has here. He’d be crazy to leave that behind.

Lance helps Keith up to the room across from his bedroom, saying he can call this room his home until he’s ready to leave. He shows him the closet where extra blankets are kept in case he gets cold and tells him not to hesitate if he feels feverish or sick because that's often a side effect of the pain that comes with not using anesthetics. Breakfast is going to be served at dawn so if Keith wants any, he has to haul himself downstairs which normally wouldn’t be a problem for an early riser such as himself, but with the pain he’ll be in tomorrow, he’s not sure if that’ll happen at all.

“Thanks,” Keith says, carefully placed on the bed to avoid his stitches ripping in the middle of the night. “For all of this.” He adds.

“No problem. Besides--” Lance responds, clicking the lamp off. “--I like the company.” He says, following immediately with “Night, mullet.” And shutting the door before Keith finds it in him to yell about the poor choice of a nickname.

Keith falls asleep that night feeling like this is the first time in years that he’s going to wake up safe and not in danger.

 

***

The sunlight draws in through the blinds, scattering patterns of light across the room just a tad too bright for Keith’s liking. He moves to close the blinds from letting the sun in but oh, oh—that’s a sharp pain snaking down his entire arm. He winces at the pain, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

He notices a glass of water and a pill on the nightstand that he swears wasn’t there last night. He makes a mental note to thank Lance later and downs the anti-inflammatories hoping the pain will dull to the size of an ant-bite with time.

Keith struggles to the kitchen, and although it's a slow process, he reminds himself to keep his torso still so that he doesn’t accidentally cause ripples of pain to shoot up his arm the way they did on the way down the stairs.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Lance whistles, eyes preoccupied with a can and knife. 

“Morning, Cinderella,” He groans, digging his palm into one of his eyes.

Lance shoots Keith a quizzical look, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Cinderella? C’mon man, that's the best you got?” He shuffles over to the couch, placing two cans—one peaches the other mixed fruit-- of oatmeal and metal forks on top of the small coffee table.

Keith hungrily reaches for the can of mixed fruit, now realizing he hadn’t eaten at all yesterday and snags a few pieces into his mouth, not even bothering to use a fork.

“Cinderella waits hand and foot on her step-family. I was implying you’re—”

“I know the story,”

“—a doormat,” Keith finishes, setting his now empty can back on the coffee table. “Where’s the water to feed the plants?”

“What?” Lance asks, mouth full of canned peaches.

“Where’s the water?” He repeats, brows stiffening.”Nevermind, I’ll go find it myself.”

“You’re healing,” Lance warns, taking the empty cans over to the kitchen. “You don’t need to be doing me any favors.”

Keith stares at Lance, bemused. Just the night before they’d agreed to work simultaneously to keep this place in check until Keith was good to leave, a sort of bargaining chip for free stay in an unfamiliar home.

“I’m helping you until I’m mostly healed. Like we agreed on.” Keith emphasizes. “Don’t try and convince me otherwise.” He says, bitterness seeping through every syllable like a wet cloth. He walks away without another word.

He finds some rainwater collected in empty food cans along the back wall of the house. He takes one upstairs and waters the small garden with a few trips back and forth, a can at a time (he tried two but his wounded arm wouldn’t allow it). It's a hassle, but he’s determined to get the job done, even if it ends with him drenched in sweat, the only clothes he owns soaking and stinky. He examines the potted plants out on the balcony that looks more like a small deck. There's a pot or two of tomatoes—some of which are turning bright red and Keith has to resist sinking his teeth into the vegetable with every impulsive fiber in his body—some cucumbers and onions, some herbs he can’t put the name to, and the branches of an orange tree that hang over the area, a few oranges scattered around the floor.

He watches Lance take off on his motorcycle from his spot on the balcony. He can only hope he makes it back alive so he doesn’t have to go retrieve Red from town by foot.

It's quiet while he’s gone. Keith enjoys it more than he knows he should. He sits out by the orange branches, enjoying the partial shade and fresh fruit, peeling open a few oranges that have started to turn bad from laying out on the ground for a while. They taste heavenly, and it isn’t because he hasn’t really eaten much in the past week or so, he just really loves oranges. Keith takes the rest of the fallen oranges back down to the kitchen after enjoying some time out in the sun, even does Lance the favor of wrapping them in cellophane to preserve them for longer.

He thinks about taking a nap, but realizes with all the drugs he’s been having since last night, he could wake up in a few hours or as long as a day. So he explores the land for a bit, knows he shouldn’t because he can’t properly defend himself, but can’t exactly bring himself to care. The trees are calming, they remind Keith of family road trips up north when he was younger.

He assesses the fence Lance has begun constructing. It’s a good distance from the edges of the house, giving lots of room to grow a larger garden or to just be out in the sunshine without having to worry about being killed.  

He only goes inside when he hears the familiar roar of his bike engine grow increasingly louder as it approaches the house. He snags an orange from the counter, not caring much about the rations Lance currently has, because it's already a lot, and he promised him half, so he figures he could add this to his debt.

“You’re bleeding.” Is the first thing he says to Lance when he walks through the front door. His shirt is stained with blood, and at first glance, it looks like his own, but the splatters across his chest suggest it was from something he shot.

“You are too,” Lance says sternly. Keith looks down at his left shoulder and sure enough, the shirt he borrowed from Lance is blood-soaked.

“Shit,” Keith mutters. He’d sworn he’d been more careful outside. Apparently not.

Lance strides over to Keith, worry apparent in the way he doesn’t ask to see Keith’s stitches, how he simply shifts the fabric of his shirt to get a look at what's under the gauze.

“One section came undone a bit but I can fix it just give me a second,” and he’s off making a b-line for the kitchen. He returns with the same stitching equipment he used just yesterday and the same concentrated furrow of his eyebrows.

After last night, Keith knows the drill. He removes his shirt so Lance doesn’t have to work around the fabric or accidentally stitch it to his skin. Lance works with clamor instead of silence. He talks Keith through it so that he’s distracted from the pain of having his skin pulled together. Keith appreciates it but doesn’t make it known.

It isn’t as painful this time, though that's because he knows what to expect. That doesn’t mean he keeps a straight face, however.

“Almost done,” Lance says, and Keith has to bite back a pained cry.

When Lance is finished, he lets Keith know, taking the bags he’d originally brought in, to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” he says, moving to go up to his room.

“Wait!” Lance calls.

Keith turns around.

“Help me make dinner.” He says, and it isn’t a demand or a request, just a thoughtful gesture to include Keith. He almost declines, but something in him knows it would be wrong to not help the guy who’s helped him in more ways imaginable.

“Sure,” He shrugs and heads over to the tiny kitchen.

“Just let me go change out of this real quick,” Lance says, a small smile gracing the corners of his mouth.

For the first time since arriving, Keith isn’t appalled by the idea of spending time with Lance. He rummages through the canned goods with a small smile of his own.

 


	2. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every passing day, Keith distances himself from Lance because he knows he has to head back on the road soon. Only, a single trip to town with him may change his train of thought.

The next few days seem to blur together. Work gets done at a slower pace than Keith is used to, but he knows it's only because of his weakened arm. He only sees Lance when he absolutely has to, keeping his distance.

They seemed to take a step back in their already thin line of acquaintanceship. 

It was mostly Keith’s doing, however.

He avoided Lance because he felt like he needed to. It wasn’t that Lance was a bad guy or anything, he’d offered Keith a place to stay when he didn’t even think he needed one, he’d given him food and spare clothing, even patched him up, possibly saving his life. He felt it was better to not get attached to being in his company, moreover, Lance to get attached to Keith’s company. Because he is going to leave once the stitches are taken out of his shoulder, and with only a few days of knowing each other, Keith can tell Lance is the type of guy to get attached too easily.

He may have also snooped around the bedroom across from his while Lance was out collecting wood to finish up the fence. Sure enough, hidden between the mattresses of the bed, are a stack of sentimental photos and letters. He flipped through the stack, all addressed to different people, all of which Keith had no knowledge of. He set those down. Even he wasn’t cruel enough to read someone’s private information.

The photos were a different story.

One, in particular, stands out to Keith. There are a lot of people in the photo, about a dozen or so, all with brilliant blue eyes, various shades of brown hair, long limbs, and tan skin. Lance is standing in the center, of course, an arm wrapped around a girl with glasses that could only be his sister(Keith can see the resemblance in the shapes of their faces and bows of their noses). Her arms are wrapped around that of another girl. Keith smiles at this, he knows girlfriends when he sees them. He focuses back on the other figures in the picture, ranging from small children to grandparents. 

It seems boisterous and loud. Nothing like his own family. 

Keith digs into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper, a photo of his own, showing his two parents, smiles prominent but reserved, their hands laced together like he’d seen them do so many times it's engraved into memory. Keith is also at the center of this photo, only he’s around eight, red t-shirt stained brown on one side from playing in the dirt, sleeves of his under-shirt dangling from his arms like blow-ups at a car sale. He’s smiling too. Only bigger than that of his parents, two of his teeth clearly missing. Its the last time he was truly happy. 

Looking at the deep contrast in their families only makes him emotional.

He returns the letters and photos as if he were never there, rubbing his eyes with his palms furiously as he walks downstairs.

***

It seems like they’d fallen into a routine. One that produced progress and promise for Lance’s house. 

At one point, Keith begins to think about the fact that he maybe doesn’t want to leave. That he could build up a relationship with Lance and not have to worry about getting back to the Blades. 

Not like they needed him anymore anyways.

Yet, he still kept Lance at a distance for reasons he doesn’t know, rather, reasons he doesn’t want to admit to. 

He wakes up early this morning, surprised to find himself standing alone in the kitchen. It’s completely silent, save for the occasional bird flying outside, and Keith takes this time to enjoy it while it lasts. 

He debates whether he should go outside and get a bit of sunlight or remain inside, tending to the garden and whatever berating tasks he can fulfill until his arm is less tender. 

As if on cue, Lance enters the room, stumbling in like a hungover college student. 

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Lance groans, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Cinderella,” Keith nods in his direction, grabbing an orange and a granola bar from the pantry. 

“You look— dressed up,” Lance eyes the food, taking it with surprise as Keith hands it to him. He scans Keith, eyes haphazardly drifting across his body.

“I’m going out,” Keith says.

And just like that, Lance is now fully awake.

“What?” He says, eyes blazing with confusion.

Keith doesn’t respond, instead staring at Lance, gaze unwavering. 

“What.” Lance says again, then adds, “You aren’t leaving yet, are you?”

Keith opens his mouth to say something but the words seem to die right in his throat, unable to leave his thoughts in the form of coherent sentences. He stands there in the middle of the living room, staring at Lance, mouth opening and closing like a defenseless guppy. 

“I’m just getting a few things I know I’ll need,” he finally manages to say. “For when I do leave.”

Lance sighs, a soft exhale, one he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, determined.

Keith wants to argue, he knows he should. But the thought of going out there alone with an injured arm suddenly seems a lot more real when it isn’t just around the small plot of land Lance has allocated for himself. He could use an extra pair of eyes.

Plus the look on Lance’s face right now, the stern arch of his brows, the crease in his narrowed eyes, is making it hard to refuse his offer. 

This must’ve been the way he got all those little kids surrounding him in one of the photos upstairs to like him, he thinks.

“We leave in thirty,” Keith says and takes an apple off the counter with him back upstairs. 

And with that, they’re surprisingly outside in twenty; and just their luck, it’s a sunny day. The cloudless sky makes it easy to forget the state of the world, the mass chaos surrounding their lives. 

“You have everything you need?” Lance asks securing his rifle in the backseat. 

Keith nods, sitting in the passenger's seat of the red pick-up Lance jump-started just yesterday. It's perfect for hauling bags filled to the brim unlike his bike, which could barely fit two people on it.

Lance starts the engine and for the first time in a while, Keith is seeing the outside world. He’s been cooped up in one building for a few days, just long enough to get used to the comfort of not worrying about your next meal or staying up all night on watch for any roaming dead, that he’s forgotten about how the air normally smells of decaying flesh and the roads are filled with roaming walkers.

Keith finds himself distracted by the passing trees that stretch on for far more many miles than he’ll ever have the luxury of seeing. He’s always had an odd fascination with trees, mostly because where he used to live, the only thing closely resembling trees were cacti that sprouted in random patches, some adorned with pink flowers, others bare with spikes. 

It's funny actually, how two things so completely different could go so well together. 

A spiked cactus on its own in the middle of a desert, animals too afraid to get near it for fear they will be pricked. It doesn’t need much care, water once in a while from scattered showers.

Yet, the cactus grows little green buds in spring that flourish into flowers so pink and unlike anything else in the barren land. Flowers are delicate, they hold the miracle of life within their buds, they grow plentiful.

A cactus is the last place you’d think a flower would be. 

But there it sits, side by side with the green succulent, and they make a heartwarming change to the tans and reds of the vast emptiness that surrounds them.

Keith glances over at Lance. 

“Let’s start with the convenience store, not that we’re going to need it necessarily but extra medicine is always good to have.” Lance declares once they arrive in the general vicinity. They park near the building itself in case they have to make a quick escape. Once they gather their weapons and bags, they head in. 

Keith goes in first, rattling the bell hanging from one of the walls to see if any walkers are still in the shop. Sure enough, one comes hobbling over, even knocks over a cardboard display of baked beans. Once it's close enough, he kicks it and sinks his knife into its head as it hits the ground with a muted thud. When he’s certain there aren’t any more, they go their separate ways to collect anything useful they can find. 

Keith heads to the back of the store, leaving Lance to look through all the pharmaceutical aisles. There isn’t much left in the back, but Keith does manage to find a flashlight with a battery already in it and a box of matches.

On his way down the second aisle, he hears a rattle. He assumes Lance dropped something on the floor but he hears the sound again a few seconds later. And again. He grabs his knife, holding it out as he approaches the following aisle with caution. 

He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees a walker squirming on the floor, pinned between two of the heavy metal shelves. It hisses when Keith nears it. 

He stomps on its head, crushing its skull until the sound dies out into silence. 

“Find anything back here?” Lance says and Keith nearly stabs him in the chest with how alert he is. 

“Christ,” He huffs, watching Lance recoil. “You scared the living shit out of me!”

“If I did that, you’d be as good as that thing on the floor. Did you just kill it?” He assumed the blood covering his right shoe would be evidence enough.

Apparently not.

Keith’s gotten the feeling that Lance has been uneasy with the whole idea of killing zombies since they first met. 

Keith sees them as monsters, as cruel, vicious things that took away the people he most loved in this world. Lance has this glint of something in his eyes like he takes one look at one walker and sees the humanity in them. Except there isn’t any left.

“They’re gone,” Keith says, turning to face him.

“Huh?” Lance stares at Keith, confused.

“The zombies. They’re gone, there's nothing humane left in them.” He says and Lance looks at Keith like he’s seen a ghost.

“I know I—I-” Lance starts but Keith doesn’t allow him to finish.

“Once we finish getting everything we need, I’m teaching you how to use a blade.” He says and brushes past him toward the exit, not wanting to hear the complaints that come from Lance’s mouth in fits of whining.

The next store doesn’t take nearly as long, but they find more things than the last. Bottles of water, cans of beans, boxes of energy bars, packs of band-aids and more gauze because they were stretching out the rest of what they had on Keith’s shoulder. They even find two bottles of Gatorade, which they argue over who gets the blue one for a solid three minutes until Lance snatches it from Keith’s grip and chugs some of it, claiming Keith wouldn’t drink anything he touched. Keith takes the bottle with a competitive smirk and drinks the rest of it. 

They save the red one for another time. 

Once they’ve filled up their bags, they head back to their car to put their findings in the trunk and go back to fill up once more. Keith only has to kill four walkers on their way, which is surprising because normally towns are more densely packed with zombies.

They decide to drive the car down to the small clinic at the edge of the street to see if they can find some numbing cream to put on Keith’s shoulder when the stitches are to come out. Its more difficult to find things because naturally, more walkers are inside. They’re all dressed in nurse scrubs or hospital gowns. 

Keith sinks his knife into the first one’s head. It collapses as he moves on to the next, darting between pieces of furniture and using them to his advantage to climb upon and stab their heads from above with his good arm. 

Lance watches in amazement, certain there is no way someone human could move that quick yet so graceful. He didn’t know watching someone kill—getting blood all over their hands and splotches on their clothing—could be so mesmerizing. 

“Okay, I can find things and ask you if they’re important enough for us to keep,” Keith says, walking into one of the patient's rooms without a response.

“Its a clinic, anything in here is going to be important,” Lance calls out.

Keith packs a few bottles of amoxicillin and painkillers off of the shelves. He checks every room after that, walking down the dark hallway that seemed to stretch on for infinity. Once in a while, he finds a patient hooked up to an empty IV bag, shame they died and had to turn into this. 

He wonders if this is what his dad would have looked like, were Keith to stick around long enough to find out. Or his mom, after she lay still on her death bed, still holding on to Keith’s shaking hand as he sobbed on her chest. 

He shakes his head, pushing those thoughts down, and continues to look for things that could be helpful. 

It would be nice if Keith knew what half of these words meant. 

Luckily he knows what numbing shots look like and takes the two left that hadn’t exploded with a smile on his face. Now he doesn’t have to sit back down on that couch letting Lance jab at his skin while Keith squeezes his eyelids shut until there is no way to hide the fact that he’s crying like a kid who just scraped their knee anymore. 

“I got it!” Keith says, smiling at Lance when they meet up again.

“I got it too!” He says and pulls Keith into a hug. Keith widens his eyes, feels his every muscle stiffen against Lance. He can also feel every one of Lance’s muscles against him; his muscular arms, lanky fingers, skinny chest. He wants to yell at Lance and push him away, but he can’t bring himself to do so, so he slowly raises his arms, putting them around the small of Lance’s back until he pulls away. 

“Let's take this back and we can head home.” Home. The way Lance says it, with such certainty, scares Keith half to death. He just said they could head home. Only it isn’t Keith’s home, he’s leaving soon. But he can’t bring himself to say that to Lance, who smiles at him with pride, like he’s proud of them, of what they accomplished. Like he imagines Keith staying there forever with him. 

Keith simply nods, and they walk to the car silently.

***

Lance thinks Keith forgot about teaching him to use his knives. After all, it hadn’t been mentioned since this morning, and now the sun is at the top of the sky. 

Only he does bring it up again on their last trip back out to the car. 

“Once we put this away we can get to it,” Keith says, arms heavy with bags.

“It?” Lance asks although he knows exactly what the other boy is talking about.

“Training, Lance,” Keith huffs, sounding slightly annoyed “Does everything I say go in one ear and out the other?” 

“Basically,” he agrees, closing the trunk and following him inside. 

“Well, you better pay attention when I’m teaching otherwise you could get injured, possibly killed.” He says it with such bluntness in the back of his throat that Lance’s arm hairs begin to prickle. He doesn’t want learning how to kill to turn into learning how to get killed. 

“Yes, teacher,” Lance snorts, setting his bags on the counter to be unloaded and put in their proper places. 

Keith ignores that comment, piling up the new cans of food in with the old. 

When they do finally go outside, Lance isn’t sure if he should be more afraid of the zombies or Keith. Keith brings out a whole tool belt of knives, yes, a whole tool belt. He goes through the basics, describing what each knife looks like and how that helps with its use. Once Lance has successfully repeated each name and its function back to Keith, he allows him to pick up the bowie knife to get a feel of it. Its a bit heavier than what he expected, but it fits in his hand perfectly. 

“Now on to techniques,” Keith begins and Lance thinks he might vomit from the talk of flesh and blood that's about to ensue. 

“You want to keep the knife on you so that it's easy for you to grab quickly even in the most extreme situations.” He demonstrates, tucking the fabric of his shirt underneath his knife. “This should go without saying but when you pull the knife out, make sure the blade is pointing away from you,” 

“I wasn’t planning on taking an eye out,” Lance mutters. 

Keith ignores him.

“Always aim for the head, if you can’t then try and wound it with a stab somewhere else, or knock it off balance and then go for the skull with your feet.” He shows this with a few swift movements of his knife. “Like you did back in town?” Lance deadpans. 

Lance’s movements aren’t nearly as pretty as Keith’s, he stumbles quite a bit, but after a quarter hour of it, he’s improving steadily. He learns that footwork is also important when doing this sort of thing, whereas, with his rifle, Lance just has to learn to keep his eyes laser-focused on the moving target. 

“Let's go try on some real targets now,” Keith says, tucking his extra knife into its casing. Lance stares at Keith, shock spreading over his face. 

“Right now?” He gulps, staring out past the gated yard. There are a few walkers out by the edge of the forest, where the brush grows thick and Lance doesn’t ever dare to go in there out of fear something will sneak up on him and his life will be over.

“No, in ten years,” Keith replies sarcastically. “Of course right now. There isn’t a better time to practice, especially when the information is fresh in your head.” He adds a “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you in case anything happens.” But that doesn’t exactly reassure Lance. 

Reluctantly, he agrees, knowing he doesn’t really have a choice anyway. Keith takes the first one out so he has time to guide Lance without being interrupted by a filthy rotter. 

“You can do it, Lance. I believe in you.” Keith says, and it sounds like he really means it too. 

“Aww,” Lance coos. “That's the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

He spots a walker making its way towards him. 

You can do this Lance, he coaxes. Just one quick stab to the head and he’s dead.

Except it isn’t that easy, it never is. 

The zombie is still wearing the blue plaid shirt it died in when it was a he, a human, a living thing with emotions and vulnerabilities, and its blue jeans and tacky black shoes make it seem less like an it and more like a he.

And he’s staring at it as it gets closer, Keith yelling at him from behind though it sounds like a muffle of frequencies to him instead of actual words. And now the sky seems just a bit too bright, and the world is spinning; he feels dizzy. 

Then it dawns on him. His eyes begin to fill with liquid, and it spills, down his cheeks, curving inward towards his mouth, then falling off his chin. He watches his tears hit the floor, now heaving to gather air in his lungs, chest feeling tighter with every struggled breath. 

His back hits the ground with a loud thud, and now the zombie is hovering right over him, teeth somehow intact, mouth dripping with blood, ready to take a bite out of his face. 

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, ready to face what comes next.

Only it doesn’t. He waits and he waits, but nothing happens. His face doesn’t feel anything unless that's how it's supposed to feel. Maybe he’s already been bitten and he just can’t realize that he has because he’s in so much shock. 

He opens his eyes slowly, cheeks still collecting tears, face burning up, lungs still heaving for air. He doesn’t see the walker. But the ground is moving, and he’s upside down. 

He only realizes he’s being carried when he sees the tile on the ground instead of grass.

He stares at Keith, pupils blown wide as he sets him down on the couch. Lance doesn’t even care that Keith is seeing him like this. He doesn’t even care if Keith knows that this is what life is like for him sometimes. That he sometimes has breakdowns that cause full blown panic attacks, where he feels like he’s dying, gasping for air, trying to make the hyperventilating stop, curled in a ball on the floor unable to move. When he feels like he may never come back from an episode, or feels like the world is caving in on him.

“I—I’m sorry,” He croaks out when he’s finally calm enough to speak. Only Keith doesn’t allow him to, merely tells him to “hush” and continues to rub small circles over his shoulders.

Since when was Keith right next to him? 

“No I’m-I’m sorry,” Lance starts, slowly collecting himself. “I should’ve killed it,  
And i-instead I almost got myself and you killed.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Keith says, brows furrowed. “But I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t realize you refusing to do this at first would lead to this. I’m so sorry.” 

Lance can’t tell if its because he’s still a little out of it, but it sounds like Keith is being genuine right now like he really truly feels bad for him.

No, not feels bad for him, Keith wouldn’t pity someone for their misfortunes. 

He’s trying to reassure Lance. To let Lance know that it's okay to be vulnerable, to be afraid of things.

“You’re too compassionate. It’s going to get you killed someday.” Keith says bluntly but then says “I’ll go heat us up some soup.” and heads to the kitchen, leaving Lance on the couch, left to calm down the rest of the way on his own.

***

Keith didn’t expect Lance to have a full-blown mental breakdown in the middle of their training session, otherwise, he never would’ve made him go out there in the first place.

A small piece of him aches in knowing that it caused him so much pain and stress. Lance keeps telling him that it's okay, that these happen all the time. That only makes something in Keith want to hold Lance, even more, to shield him from that ever happening again. 

And now Keith realizes that he’s the one getting attached to Lance, to living here where it's peaceful and calming (minus Lance yelling around the house), to having someone he can depend on.

Only he doesn’t want it to be like this, he knows it’ll only end badly if it continues. 

He thinks today was that point in his growing relationship with Lance as friends? Acquaintances? House-mates? 

Which is why he’s knocking at Lance’s bedroom door long after he said he was going to bed to apologize once again for causing him to have a breakdown. Because he realizes the tenseness in the air, the way their dynamic has started to shift with one near-death incident. 

When there’s no reply, he opens the door a crack, violet eyes locked on the bed but Lance isn’t there. He opens the door all the way and the sliding door that leads to the little balcony Keith had become so accustomed to spending his time on, is wide open. 

He spots Lance laying on the concrete, limbs close to one another in a form of self-preservation. He doesn’t move when Keith’s boots pad softly against the floor, nor when he takes a seat next to him, which starts to make the panic levels in Keith rise. 

Then he isn’t worried. He’s instead taking in the boy on the ground next to him, the curve of his upturned nose, the way the moonlight highlights his sharp cheekbones, and it dawns on him that he’s going to have to leave this soon. 

He thought he’d be ready to flee within a moments notice. But now, Keith seems to be having trouble swallowing the idea that once he leaves, he’s never going to see Lance again unless by chance he happens to pass by this side of the state and that’s if Lance hasn’t gotten himself killed by that point. A quick turn-around from just earlier this morning, when he couldn’t wait to collect more supplies to take with him for when he does leave.

He scoots forward and then he’s leaning backward until his entire backside lay flat against the cool concrete adjacent to Lance. And then he sits in silence, listening to the soft breathing, feeling his own chest heave with every inhale, letting the rush of adrenaline he feels being out in nature wash over his body in a cascade of fresh air.

After what feels like hours of this, Keith breaks the still atmosphere. 

“Orion,” he whispers, stomach clenching when he watches Lance’s head rotating to face him. 

“What?” Lance says, and Keith watches him raise his hands to rub at his eyes furiously. And now Keith knows he’s been crying, which only makes him want to apologize, even more, chest bubbling with emotion. 

“The sky,” and Keith’s pointing out to his left. “The constellation is visible from out here.” 

“My family and I used to sit out on our back porch looking for constellations, I was obsessed,” Lance says, softly, and there’s no way anyone could miss the sorrow in his voice. 

“Me too,” Keith says, and it's true. 

He wanted to be an astronaut growing up but not for the childish reasons most five-year-olds say it. His older brother, Shiro was an astronaut—a pilot for NASA down in Florida—and Keith wanted to be just like him, especially with all the stories he’d tell their family whenever he’d visit the west coast with his husband(Keith last heard from them during the first outbreaks back when he was 8). 

It fascinated Keith, the idea that something else could be out there, more expansive and incomprehensible than anything any human has ever known.

Now the only incomprehensible thing(besides the undead) to Keith is why Lance is smiling at him as he’d just said something intriguing, and why it’s doing things to Keith’s insides that shouldn’t even be possible. 

“I miss them,” Lance says sadly. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, eyes fixated on finding Leo up in the sky, mind mapping out each star that connects to form it. “Me too.” 

They talk for a bit longer, about their families. Keith learns about Lance’s sister Veronica, her girlfriend Acxa, his brothers Marco and Luis, his nieces and nephews, and most importantly his mother and father.

He discovers Lance and his entire family are Cuban, which isn’t surprising to Keith considering Lance’s tan complexion and the way he curses in Spanish whenever he stubs his toe on the corner of a wall.

He smiles the whole time he talks about his favorite pizza shop down by the beach and spending hot summer days under the shade of citrus trees, eating fruit and hanging out with his friends. 

It’s the first time he’s genuinely happy in a while, Keith can tell, it practically radiates from his skin. 

“My name was almost Yorak,” Keith mentions when they’re on the topic of awful childhood nicknames. 

“What!” Lance practically shouts and Keith has to cover his mouth with his hand. 

Then they’re giggling like two middle school girls sharing their crushes at a sleepover. 

“Your name was almost Yorak?” Lance asks in a whisper, the corners of his mouth struggling to not curve upward as he speaks. 

“I don’t want to hear it, _Little Lancito_.” 

“Hey! You know I hate that!” Lance yelps and they’re both giggling again, only this time it turns into full-on fits of laughter, where the two of them have to clutch onto their stomachs because their sides hurt from laughing so much. Tears build up in Keith’s eyes and he laughs even harder when they spill down his face as they both laugh and laugh until they can’t any longer. 

_It's funny how all the stars in the universe that sit above the Earth seem to pale in comparison to Lance McClain’s laughter._

“My mom used to call me her little _principe_ ,” Lance says, calm now.

Then he mentions how his mother used to hold him in her arms and sing a little song to him whenever he’d get a panic attack like he had earlier today and how it calmed him to just be wrapped in her embrace, and the happiness is sucked out of him like a black hole. 

“Lance,” Keith says and places his hand atop Lance’s. “It’s okay to miss her,”

“I—” Lance starts but trails off.

“You’re allowed to miss her, and you having panic attacks is nothing to be ashamed of. She may not be here with you right now, but she's here in spirit and in your heart.” He pauses, swallows, then adds, “I’m here for you.” 

It’s silent now. Not an awkward silence, though. Just regular silence.

The kind where two people are sitting outside in the middle of the night, surrounded by the sounds of crickets chirping in the grass and the wind combing through the leaves of trees. Of steadied breaths and the occasional tapping from someone’s heel. Of birds flying overhead, their wings flapping against the air, unaware of what lurks on the ground.

He feels the weight of Lance’s hand underneath his shifting and for a moment, thinks he’s pushing Keith away, trying to not so subtly tell him that he’s overstepped his boundaries, but then he feels the warmth of Lance’s palm against his own, and their fingers lock together. 

Keith looks over at Lance, but his eyes are focused on the constellations above them. 

When he looks again, Lance is already looking at him, cheeks tinted a light pink, blue eyes shining brightly under the moonlight. Keith’s breath catches in his throat and he blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming this entire conversation is a made-up event formulated by Keith’s brain in a way to torment him. 

Once he realizes it's real, however, he reacts quickly. 

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Keith announces, standing up with urgency. He knows if he stays he’s going to do something he regrets, so he makes his way inside.

“Keith!” he hears Lance calling after him.

He turns on his heels.

“Thank you, for talking to me tonight, and for saving my life.” He says, shutting the door behind him. 

“Anytime,” Keith replies, cheeks burning up as he walks away because he realizes that he might have actually kissed Lance had he stayed outside with him any longer. 

“Shit,” he curses, back hitting the mattress with force. 

He has to leave soon. 

But he doesn’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting spicy up in Lance's house if you ask me. Also peep that bonding moment.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter will be up on 4/15. 
> 
> Let me know how I'm doing! Your feedback is important to me!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this chapter was mostly exposition I swear it gets more interesting in the next chapter. Speaking of the next chapter, I'm going to upload each chapter over the course of the next three Monday's in April so stay tuned!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Your feedback is important so let me know how I'm doing!


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